Chapter Three Violet
Chapter Three
Violet
I should’ve looked away.
I should’ve minded my own damn business and kept wiping that damned counter like nothing had caught my attention.
But the moment my gaze landed on the gruesome image on his laptop—the staged body, the symbol carved into her naked flesh—it was like the past had punched me in the gut.
I couldn’t ignore it. I hadn’t been able to in all these years. No matter how much time had elapsed, my past was always there. My shadow.
And I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t reacted.
Grayson held himself with this coldness that surrounded him. His eyes were too sharp to be friendly. He was too smart for me to truly hide anything from him.
And right now, the way he watched me made me feel like he saw the girl I used to be.
The girl I was still trying to bury.
Now I stood frozen, the warmth of the café dimming around me, the scent of cinnamon and crusted sugar turning sour. The air between us was too still, too charged. His voice echoed in my head: I just want the truth.
I’d seen it carved into dying flesh—before I’d been the chosen one, before everything I ever knew revolved around a god bathed in blood.
And now it was back. Here. In Sweetwater Lake, just like I’d feared. Confirmed and not just a What if it’s them? thought in my head.
I told myself to move, to walk back into the kitchen and pretend this never happened. But I didn’t.
Instead, I looked at Grayson, no longer hiding . . . anything.
He still watched me with those eyes like storm clouds before a downpour. I knew one thing. That whoever and whatever he was made him dangerous.
But dangerous to me—or to those who threatened to take me to hell?
“What do you want from me?” I finally asked, my voice brittle.
He tilted his head slightly. “I already told you.”
“The truth,” I whispered.
He nodded once. No smile. No pretense. “I think you know more than you’re letting on. I could see it in your eyes as you looked at the crime scene photo. You know what it was. You’ve seen it before.”
I said nothing.
“I think you and I are chasing the same ghost.”
I almost laughed. Ghost? No, ghosts didn’t leave carve markings in innocent young women. Ghosts didn’t worship a god who needed virginal female sacrifices.
It was clear the cult was targeting young women who resembled me in age or appearance, their posed bodies a twisted homage to the prophesied Vessel I was once called. I knew it was meant to draw me out or punish me for escaping.
These weren’t just random killings. It was a hunt, and the displays were bait to lure me back into their grasp.
I looked down at my hands—trembling now, the cloth balled so tight that my knuckles were white from the strain.
“You should leave,” I breathed. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He studied me like he had that photo.
“Neither should you.”
That hit harder than I expected.
I’d spent years running, had changed my appearance and name, learned how to blend in. I’d chosen Sweetwater Lake because it was supposed to be quiet. Supposed to be dead.
But now the dead washed up on the shores of the lake. My hell had followed me here.
I looked at Grayson again, really looked this time. He didn’t seem surprised by any of this. If anything, he seemed . . . prepared. My throat closed. My legs felt like stone.
The next day, Grayson returned to the coffee shop.
This time he lingered after his coffee, striking up a conversation about the town’s history.
“Sweetwater Lake seems peaceful on the surface,” he said, his voice casual but probing.
“But there’s an undercurrent here, isn’t there? Like everyone’s holding their breath.”
I hesitated, then shared a small piece of my thoughts. “It’s always been quiet, but lately . . . the whispers make it feel crowded.” We talked longer than I intended, and I felt this strange connection, like we were kindred spirits navigating our own shadows.
Deep down, I knew how my story would end.
And I wasn’t sure I had it in me to survive a second time.